The Bree Incident
by Nekkyou Hiryuu
Summary: Some hobbits are made to drink each other under the table. Others are made for adventure...
1. Merry Meet

I do not own any of the original characters used in this story. I do not own Lord of the Rings. I don't own Roscoe, Herefara, Dolly, or even Hebrilith. I do, however, own Ivy -- and that's good enough for me.  
  
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Chapter One: Merry Meet  
  
Roscoe wiped his mouth and set down his empty mug. He paid Barliman the innkeeper for his services, thanked him, and hopped off of his hobbit-sized stool. As he shuffled toward the door, some of his friends -- the Underhills -- noticed him leaving and invited him to stay and do some singing, but Roscoe wasn't in the mood; it had been a long day, and besides, there was so much on his mind that day.  
  
He exited the tavern and found himself on the street. As he began to walk toward his home, he sunk into a melancholy that had been haunting him lately -- though he knew not why. Perhaps it was boredom, or just futility... he didn't know, but in those times he found himself thinking back on his travels -- about how he wished he could visit the Forest, or see an Elf.  
  
Roscoe didn't know it, but he was getting ready for an adventure -- one that had already begun, and that was already on the way. In the meantime, though, Roscoe sighed and continued to meander down the deserted street.  
  
Ivy padded quickly down the cobblestone streets of Bree, hugging her cloak tight around her to ward off the nighttime chill. She was visiting some cousins for the week in Bree, but one could only take so much of reliving embarrassing family histories. At the first opportunity she had slipped out in search of a good pub...there really was nothing like a good pint and merry conversation with complete strangers. Caution warned her against approaching the unhappy-looking hobbit (she had quickly learnt that strangers in foul moods were not to be trifled with), but her want for a warm fire overpowered that in no time flat.  
  
"Hullo!" She called, hoping to sound friendly. "Could you direct me to the...ah..." The hobbit searched her mind for the name she'd heard. "The Prancing Pony, I believe? I'm not very familiar with the area." Her gray eyes were wide, hoping for an equally friendly answer.  
  
Roscoe, though crestfallen, would not let his mood get in the way of the perpetual friendliness indigenous to his race. He bowed to the stranger in hobbit-fashion and said, "Why, good evening, my new friend. Many blessings to you and your house!"  
  
Roscoe pointed down the street from whence he came. "The Prancing Pony is the best pub in the land; it's not a furlong down the road there."  
  
There was an awkward silence. Roscoe's manners told him that he should walk with the newcomer to make sure she arrived safely to her destination; yet he was a rather stubborn hobbit, and deep down inside perhaps he knew that the conversation might lift his spirits, which would seem rather wishy-washy of him to go about just changing his mind about what mood he is to be in. Few things were quite so unbecoming, in Roscoe's opinion, as a fickle hobbit.  
  
The silence continued as this inner struggle ensued within Roscoe's head.  
  
"And to you and yours." Ivy replied with a small bow, glad that she had not irked him further. "Thank you very much...." She paused, all too aware of the awkward silence. It took a great deal of thought and courage (and perhaps foolishness as well) for her to ask the question that simply would not leave her alone.   
  
"Are you feeling unwell?" She ventured, hoping again that her boldness would be tolerated.  
  
Roscoe recoiled a bit at the question, and realized how selfish he has been: There was a stranger in need of assistance, and there he was feeling sorry for himself! Though Roscoe was stubborn and tended to be moody, he also prided himself in being an honorable hobbit, and at Ivy's question the honorable side of Roscoe Longbottom surfaced and conquered all else in his will.  
  
"Goodness me!" he exclaimed, perhaps purposefully leaving Ivy's question unanswered. "Where are my manners? I should have offered to walk you to the inn! You know, they have the best corned beef and hash from here to the Far Downs. Come, let's walk together."  
  
Roscoe and Ivy began their trek down the street. "Gracious me, I didn't even have the sense to ask your name! I would most certainly love to know that, as well as what brings you to Bree?"  
  
Ivy smiled at Roscoe's abrupt change in mannerism, wondering if she had actually asked the right question for once...although it had gone unanswered, she noticed. Deciding rather wisely (in her opinion) not to press the matter, she followed Roscoe down the road.  
  
"Name's Ivy Greenhand, good sir. I've come to Bree to visit my cousins...I fear that I wasn't quite prepared for all the embarassing memories they would bring up." She said somewhat self-consciously. "Just need a bit of air, and some fine ale...corned beef, you say? Excellent." She could almost taste it...  
  
Roscoe laughed; his subconscious premonition that conversation would lift his spirits had begun to fulfill itself. In fact, any thoughts of depression or longing had made way almost instantly to the good-manners and mirth that usually governed the normal state of his demeanor. Roscoe jumped playfully ahead -- directly in front of Ivy, stopping her in her tracks -- and took a grand bow once again. "Roscoe Longbottom at your service and your family's!"  
  
He again resumed his position beside his new friend as they continued to walk down the street. "And I know exactly what you mean about family embarrassment! Who are your cousins? I might know them, if they do indeed live here in Bree."  
  
Ivy stopped abruptly as Roscoe leapt in front of her, feigning shock as her merry laughter escaped quite unchecked. Finally able to calm herself away from hysterics, she fanned her flushed face.  
  
"You might know Drake or Leif Deephallow...they're the ones that are most likely to be out and about at all hours. I'm afraid that the rest of them prefer quiet teatimes and roundabout talks. They're not bad, honestly, but one can only be expected to take so much." She said carefully, trying not to be disrespectful. Ivy did love her family, although the terms on which she got along with most were not very good. Family was family, after all.  
  
Roscoe's face darkened a bit: he was indeed acquainted with the Deephallow brothers, and though his manners kept him from conveying his thoughts, he understood all the more why Ivy was seeking refuge that evening. Obviously family is not the best conversation piece considering what he perceived to be Ivy's state of mind, so he decided to change the subject.  
  
"So, where are you from then, Ivy Greenhand?" Roscoe asked, "and what do you do? I suppose I could guess from your name that you're a gardener...?" He cracked a grin.  
  
"I come from Hobbiton, Roscoe Longbottom, just across the Brandywine and barely far enough away to be outside of Buckland." Ivy looked down at her hands, picking at the dirt under her fingernails. "Yes, I am a gardener...it is what I enjoy. Not so much the plants themselves as the work you have to put into it; the work that eventually pays off at the end of a season." She squinted her eyes to see into the distance, wondering if the Inn was nearby. "And you, living here in Bree...what work do you find?"  
  
"Ah, from the Shire!" Roscoe interjected. "And a gardener at that -- you must have much honor with your neighbors, having so prestigious a position. Would I could be a gardener myself, but I don't have the patience for that sort of work..."  
  
All of a sudden, Roscoe looked around, stopped walking, and began to laugh heartily.  
  
"Neighbors, yes, but I'm not quite certain how much honor is gotten..." Ivy walked a few steps more before noticing that Roscoe had stopped. Turning around, she looked at him puzzledly. "What's so funny?"  
  
Roscoe, amid an occasional uncontrolled outburst of giggling, managed to say: "Bless the hair on my feet! I've been so caught up in our conversation, we've passed the inn! Come now, it's but a few yards back this direction! I'd say it's time for a stoop of ale -- that'd correct my lack of direction, for sure!"  
  
Roscoe and Ivy turned around and began walking again; very soon they were at the door.  
  
"After you, m'lady," Roscoe said with a bow and a half-teasing aire of dignity, as though he were ushering a member of royalty into the smoky tavern. "If you don't mind, I suppose I could keep you company for awhile. Perhaps I'll be able to introduce you around to some folks; all is not well in the world when there is a hobbit anywhere without a hefty collection of friends! That's what I say, anyway."  
  
Upon arriving at the inn and looking inside, though, Roscoe stopped cold. 


	2. And So It Begins

Chapter Two: And so it begins…  
  
"Oh my..." Ivy grinned, covering her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter herself as she followed Roscoe to the door of the inn. "Thank you very much...I would be delighted to have your company!" She replied in the same manner, and was once again a bit slow in noticing that Roscoe had not followed her into the inn. Looking about, the hobbit saw nothing extremely out of the ordinary...but Roscoe was more familiar with the place than she was, and it was enough to make the hairs on her neck stand on end.  
  
Hurrying back to the door, she looked between the inn and Roscoe for a few moments. "Is something amiss?" Ivy asked in a hushed voice, wondering if this was the sort of situation that called for whispering.  
  
Roscoe didn't answer right away. He realized that something peculiar must have happened in the short time of his absence, for the tavern was very quiet.  
  
It seemed that everyone was looking at something in the middle of the main eating area. Roscoe beckoned for Ivy to follow him as he looked around the bar and saw what everyone was staring at...  
  
...a bloodied body, not long dead. It was either of a tall hobbit or a short man, features obscured by the fuzziness that rose in Ivy's eyes. She had no desire to approach it in order to find out, but merely stood where she was. A tall man stood as if frozen to the spot over the body, wild fire in his eyes and a number of his own wounds bleeding profusely. A few others, men and hobbits alike, nursed minor wounds at a nearby table, but they were obviously not the concern of the tavern.   
  
The wild-looking man flinched as he saw the two hobbits enter, jarred out of his trance. He held a wickedly sharp knife in one hand, looking about for his allies of the moment before.  
  
Ivy shifted, watching the man carefully. Even in all the chaos, it seemed that there were still those who desired merely a pint of good ale and friendly talk. She could not bring herself to look away from the body, though. It was horrible and exciting and even wonderful all at once. Only tales told of the vengeful spirits of the dead kept her away now...well, that and the man holding the knife. That bit still cautioned her, as it ought to have cautioned anyone.  
  
Roscoe looked over at Ivy, worried for her; he had seen this kind of thing before in his travels (though never in Bree) and he was wondering if it might be too much for Ivy.  
  
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Let's leave, now. Try not to be noticed." Roscoe grabbed her hand and began to retreat out of the door of the inn...   
  
"THURR ONCE WAS A WEE LASSIE!"  
  
Uproarious (and slurred) singing came from the back of the pub, the noise level rising dramatically as the Hobbit wobbled closer. Merry was held firmly about his shoulders by the bartender, a stern look on the Big Man's face. Merry looked considerably happier, a sloppy smile on his face. He stumbled over his own feet as he was directed to the door.  
  
"Whoopsie!" Merry said cheerfully, patting the chair that hadn't moved an inch. "Pippin!" he called, waving his arms about. "Where are you?"   
  
Merry and Pippin had decided (on a whim) to adventure out of the Shire in search of adventure. And adventure had lead them here. Having spent nearly five hours in the back of the pub trying to drink one another under the table, the pair had consumed numerous pints, for that was what the Big Folk drank.   
  
Considerable rowdiness and singing had managed to catch the attention of the barkeep, who now had Merry about the shoulders and was pushing the drunken Hobbit towards the door. The last thing he needed was a pair of raucous hobbits, and there was still the matter of the murder…a small crowd had gathered around it, whispering nervously and looking around.  
  
"AND WHAT A PRIDDY LIDDLE LASSIE SHE WAAAAAAAAAAS!"  
  
A small 'eep' and some scuffling came from the back of the tavern where Merry and Pippin had just been causing a riot. Soon, a hefty barmaid emerged through the crowd with Pippin under one arm, not really kicking and screaming, but rather irritated at the fact that his feet were no longer touching the ground.  
  
"Pip-Pip-Pippin!" Merry roared cheerily as he was set on his feet by the bartender. "Thanks yeh vurry mooch!" Merry said, swaying on the spot. He regally dusted off his shoulders, missing several times before he actually connected with the fabric.  
  
He staggered towards the door, colliding with Ivy, then bouncing off her into Roscoe. He squinted, though the pair of them were no more than an inch away from him.  
  
"Well lookit this!" he said, grinning maniacally. "It's Ivy and Roscoe!" Merry turned and waved to Pippin. "Pippin! Look, it's Miss Greenleaf and Mr.Longbottom!"  
  
"Enjoyin' yeerslefs?" he said, the words coming out of his mouth barely coherent.  
  
oscoe didt know how to react. Inside of him arose a combination of many feelings: concern for Ivy, bewilderment at the body in the middle of the floor, exasperation at Merry and Pip's utter lack of appreciation for the current circumstances, annoyance that Merry mispronounced Ivy's name, and hilarity at the new guests' abrupt change in the mood of the tavern.  
  
In the midst of the whirlwind of possibilities, Roscoe chose what any healthy hobbit would: he began to laugh. Quite hard, in fact, relieved that the seriousness of the previous situation -- at least for him -- had lifted for the time being. He gave Merry a hearty slap on the back that sent the poor inebriated hobbit to the floor: "Merry, you crazy old lout! What are you doing here?"  
  
The barmaid took no care in setting Pippin down, and he went tumbling right on top of Merry.  
  
"Oomph!" He rolled off of his cousin, clutching his head and watching the room spin in circles. He then looked up and saw Roscoe laughing like there was no tomorrow. "Whush so amusin', Mister Pipeweed?"  
  
Ivy couldn't help but grin at the two drunken hobbits, idly wondering why things seemed to be returning to normal in the pub. Maybe there were many such fights in Bree that ended in deaths...in fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if that were the truth. Big Folk were such jumpy creatures, after all. The hobbit watched Merry and Pippin with silence and a polite smile, glad that they had not been involved in the brawl.  
  
Roscoe -- fed up and determined to get to the bottom of the situation at hand -- walked to the middle of the room and shouted at the top of his lungs:  
  
"Quiet, everyone!" Certain that he'd gotten everyone's attention, he continued. "Please! Now, I've had a very long day, and a lot of queer things have been going on, and I feel I deserve an explanation for at least a few of them, if you don't mind. Now, would there be anyone here who could explain why there is a dead man in the middle of the floor?"  
  
There was a deathly silence in the room at Roscoe's question. Just when Roscoe began to feel uncomfortable with the silence and started to glance back at Ivy to see her reaction, he heard a slight sound in the far corner of the room. He turned his head immediately toward the source of the sound; apparently, someone had just stood up from being seated at one of the far tables.   
  
Ivy watched Roscoe with a mixture of thoughts, horrified and admiring all at once. Was he mad? Someone would probably have more mind to cut his head off than to answer his question respectfully. But, she reminded herself yet again, things were a good deal different in Bree than she was used to in the Shire. She watched the figure stand with a blank expression, nearly immediately turning back to her half-mad companion.  
  
"Now lissen 'ere, nosey 'obbit!" One of the considerably drunker men roared at Roscoe, sloshing a giant tankard of ale before his ruddy face. "We don' like no one comin' in here askin' about no one's business, unners'and?"  
  
A few others seemed to agree with the man, but some of the quieter (and less drunken) taverngoers looked like they might lend some information if asked under less stressing circumstances.  
  
The figure stepped into the light, and Roscoe gasped when he saw that it was ...a young hobbit lass letting out a screech of horror. Up until now, her view of the gruesome corpse in the middle of the floor had been blocked. The crowd gradually moved aside as Dolly turned about in her seat, and nearly fainted on the spot when she saw a face she recognized very well on a dead body.  
  
The hobbit girl leapt out of her seat and raced halfway to the body but couldn't seem to go any further. In a daze, she dropped to her knees and stared, her face becoming ghostly pale. Within a few moments she was sobbing dreadfully, falling forward with her face in her hands, buried into the folds of her skirts.  
  
Fearing that Dolly would faint at the sight of the body, Roscoe rushed to steady her. He knew Dolly well, and wondered what could have made her react so... when he realized that he's never really looked at the face of the dead man in the floor. Almost afraid to do so after Dolly's reaction, Roscoe turned to see that it was Mungo Bracegirdle, Dolly's dear uncle. The hobbit was brave, adventurous, and rather tall for one of his kind. Perhaps his daring nature and inability to stay in one place for too long got him into more trouble that he had always though it would.  
  
Meanwhile, Dolly was still sobbing on the floor, unable to do much else.  
  
The wheels were turning in Roscoe's head. Daring though he was, Mungo didn't seem like the kind of hobbit to get into a bar brawl -- he might have been a little loony (everyone thought so, though Roscoe would never say this aloud in front of Dolly, bless her heart), but never violent, malicious, or even foul-mouthed as to provoke attack. The only explanation Roscoe could think of was that perhaps the man with the knife had been hired to take care of Mungo.  
  
Roscoe shuddered. Nothing like that had ever happened in Bree before -- at least, not to his own limited knowledge. He looked up warily at the man with the knife... who was no longer there.  
  
There was a murderer about! Roscoe felt his adventurous side well up inside of him again; he felt responsible to do all he could to find all about what just happened. He looked around for someone that could be of use to help -- but all he saw were the prostrate Dolly Bracegirdle and the drunken forms of Merry and Pippin: hardly of any use in the states they were in.  
  
His eye caught Ivy's. Though Ivy was a new friend of his, Roscoe felt a great amount of respect for the hobbit lass; she seemed very trustworthy and strong. Roscoe made sure there was someone to take care of Dolly and that Barliman would send someone to inform the constable that there was an emergency before walking up to Ivy.  
  
"Come with me: We have some detective work to do!" 


	3. Swords and Stones

Chapter Three: Swords and Stones  
  
Merry comfortingly put an arm about Dolly's shoulders. He knew this girl by some way or another, he just couldn't remember right now.  
  
"There there" he slurred, "It will be all right!"  
  
Merry had to admit that such a scene was new and frightening to him, a dead body laying on the floor like an abandoned puppet.  
  
"Pip! Get Dolly something to drink." For once Merry's intentions with ale were good - it would soothe the Hobbit's nerves, and calm her enough to speak clearly and listen. Perhaps she would have some answers.  
  
"Detective work?" Ivy repeated, having stood motionless while watching Dolly sob over her dead uncle. "Poor Dolly...I don't think any of my uncles are brave enough to leave the house, yet alone come to Bree...shame, though. They're really missing a lot. I mean..." She stopped somewhat embarrassedly, realizing that she'd been rambling. Quickly recovering the train of thought Roscoe had set in motion, she nodded.   
  
"Yes...the man with the knife." Ivy looked around. "He...he was just here, though." Her tone was puzzled, if not a bit ruffled. She hadn't seen him walk out. That didn't mean he hadn't, of course, she was just miffed that she had let him walk right out the door without even noticing. Filthy murderer. "Where would we look, though? He could be anywhere by now."  
  
Roscoe slowed his pace; he hadn't really thought about how he was going to find out what he hoped to; no one in the inn seemed to be cooporating, and Ivy was right that he could be anywhere by now. For the time being, Roscoe's only plan was to run by his home (it wasn't very far away) to get the shortsword that he kept hidden under his bed; it didn't seem right to be walking around with a murderer roaming about without being properly armed -- especially with Ivy more or less in his charge (at least, he felt a sort of responsibility for making sure she was safe).  
  
Roscoe suddenly felt very alone; he felt an enormous burden to take care of business (no one else seemed to be taking the initiative, and it was clearly his responsibility to do what he could) -- however, it slowly became clear as his stubborn adventurous nature subsided enough to let his rationality peep through that he could not do much by himself.  
  
For the meantime, though, the sword still seemed like a good idea to Roscoe. He exited the tavern, putting Nob, Barliman's assistant, in charge of making sure that no one "suspicious" left the inn without at least a very accurate description of what he looked like or where he went.  
  
Roscoe turned to Ivy. "Will you come with me to my house? I need to pick up something before we can proceed."  
  
Pippin scrambled unquestioningly from his seat and ran up to the bar, then came back over to where Dolly lay sobbing with a tankard brimming full of ale.  
  
He set it down in front of her, not really sure if she wanted it just yet. "Here you are, Miss. Compliments of Master Brandybuck and myself."  
  
Dolly slowly rose from the floor and sat up straight, mopping her face with her apron. She saw the ale sitting in front of her and smiled as best she could.  
  
"Oh, thank ye most graciously, sir," she managed to choke out. The lass lifted the tankard to her lips and drank a couple fair-sized gulps. After a few moments she began to hiccup, and shifted so she was sitting cross-legged.  
  
"All right..." Ivy nodded, wondering what kind of 'thing' Roscoe had in mind. That, and she was equally curious to see what kind of a house Roscoe lived in. There were all sorts in Bree...call it nosy, but it was merely curiousity. That, and again with the fact that a murderer was out there somewhere.   
  
"Let's go." She opened the door, starting down the road without realizing that she had no idea where Roscoe lived.  
  
Roscoe led the way down the street -- a rather familiar street, by the way, having walked there just a while back with a certain familiar hobbit -- at a brisk pace. "We should be there in less than five minutes," he said to Ivy.  
  
For quite a little while, Roscoe didn't say anything. Soon, he turned back to look at Ivy and smiled. "You know, I'm glad you're with me," Roscoe says. "I feel that perhaps you may have quite an important part to play in all this before the end -- but bless me! I'm beginning to sound quite wizardly with that kind of talk, am I?" He laughed and shook his head, hoping she wouldn't think him to be talking nonsense.  
  
He considered what he would do when they arrive at his house: Should he offer Ivy some tea? His manners would demand that at the least, but they were so hard-pressed for time.  
  
"I'll see if I've got some seed-cakes for her," he thought to himself; "something that won't take an aweful amount of time."  
  
"I've never met a wizard before." Ivy commented. "Seen Gandalf around the Shire a few times, but I've never spoken with him...so don't worry about sounding wizardly." She looked as far as she could down the long road, trying to guess which house might belong to Roscoe.  
  
Thinking a bit more as they walked, Ivy realized she was actually enjoying herself. "Dead of night, chasing a murderer unarmed...and you're having fun?" She mocked herself silently, a small smile on her face.  
  
Roscoe saw the smile, and it encouraged him. Very soon they arrived at a neighborhood of hobbit-sized houses. Most of them on the outskirts were painted the same -- a dark brown color -- but they soon came to a section of the neighborhood where the houses were painted quite a few different colors -- from burnt yellow to earthen gray to forest green.  
  
Roscoe turned to Ivy with a slight grin. "I'm a painter, you know, and my neighbors are always soliciting my services! It certainly brightens up the place, doesn't it? I've always despised that ugly-brown that they've painted the other houses with. Well, here it is!" he exclaimed, stopping in front of a forest-green house. "Please, come in for awhile; we haven't much time for a proper visit, but I shant leave you out here in the street!" Roscoe led the way up a short flight of steps to the cozy little house.   
  
Ivy nodded, quickly following him up the steps. She walked over the threshold after him, squinting her eyes to get used to the even darker surroundings. Candlelight came from a holder on a large table in the next room, giving her pleasant light to see by.  
  
The walls were a relaxing yellow-cream color, hung with many pictures and other tasteful decorations. A hat stand and a row of hooks were directly to her left, but Ivy did not take the time to unfasten and hang her cloak. The hardwood floors were polished magnificently, but had not been cleaned in some time. A few oddly-designed rugs covered the larger sitting room, obviously from places faraway.  
  
"Very nice." She said to the house, examining a slightly cluttered mantle. Cluttered it may have been, but there was no dust to irritate her nose. Not incredibly orderly, but then again, who was?  
  
Roscoe, pleased with the compliment, left down a hallway with "I'll be back in a jiff; have a seat if you like."  
  
Not much time had passed before he returned with a couple of seed-cakes. "Don't have time for tea, else I would have offered you some," he said, "and plus I feel bad that you missed out on the corned beef! I hope this will do to suit your appetite, though. Hope you don't mind the clutter," he added with a blush as he tripped slightly over something on the floor.  
  
"If you're ready, then let's go back to the inn and see what there is to find!"  
  
"Oh, this is just fine." Ivy assured him, taking the proffered cakes without hesitation. One was gone in a matter of seconds, but she worked more slowly on the next, thinking as she chewed. "I don't mind the mess; I could name a dozen that have worse." She offered that as a bit of relief, hoping he didn't think that she scorned him for the state of his home.  
  
"Didn't you say that you had something to gather here before we went back?" She asked, brushing stray crumbs off her hands and onto her cloak.  
  
"Oh, but I've gotten it already." Roscoe pulled aside his cloak to reveal a shortsword at his hip. "Shall we?" he asked, motioning to the door.  
  
"Oh, I see." Ivy's eyes widened momentarily at the sight of the shortsword, but she was not neccessarily startled. A sword would do a lot more than hands could against an armed Big Person.   
  
"After you!" She opened the door, trying to make an attempt at politeness. The prospects of the night, once again center stage, had her extremely eager to return to the inn.  
  
Roscoe led the way through the front, holding the door for Ivy and locking it behind them. He trotted down the steps and down the street; it felt good to have his sword at his hip again. It'd been awhile since he's had the excuse to bring it out. It made him feel prepared for anything. Needless the say, Roscoe's adventurous side was rising up again.  
  
As he and Ivy went back down the street (for the third time that evening), Roscoe thought he heard a movement off the street to the left. Roscoe slowed his pace and listened closer. He felt the urge to draw his sword, but didn't want to appear overly eager.  
  
Ivy slowed as well, trying to see through the thick shadows. She felt a bit safer knowing that at least one of them was armed, but still couldn't keep chills from creeping up her spine. Guessing that it wasn't one of those times where speaking would be wise, she continued cautiously.   
  
The inn was not too far away, but a good deal farther away than she would have liked. If anyone was lurking in the darkness, they would have plenty of opportunities to waylay their journey.  
  
Roscoe heard the sound again, and it was definitely someone following them -- probably a Big Person, as he could judge from the great noise he or she was making.  
  
Roscoe stopped altogether, laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Fear and excitement gripped him, and a million thoughts flew through his mind at once: not least of these being that the murder was still at large and probably quite aware of what he and Ivy looked like and what they had just witnessed a few minutes before in the inn. Either way, he sensed they were in danger.  
  
"Now look what you've done, Roscoe Longbottom!" he scolded himself in his thoughts. "What if something happens to Ivy? And you thought you could be a hero and save the day? Curse my stubborn pride!"  
  
Roscoe could think of nothing better to do than to wait attentively and whisper to Ivy, "Get behind me. Pick up a rock if you can." 


	4. Blood on the Cobblestones

Chapter Four: Blood on the Cobblestones  
  
Ivy tensed, watching the direction that the noise had come from for a second before unfreezing and doing as instructed. The cobblestone roads were well-kept, but she managed to find a small number of small stones that had been brought in from other places.  
  
Shifting the stones in her hand, Ivy waited for the Big Person to show himself, nerves raw. It could be just a simple drunkard, or something much more dangerous...she hated the suspense.  
  
A soft scraping on the cobblestone road came from one direction... and continued for several moments. All too soon, a thumping noise arose from a dark shack on the roadside. The large figure of a draft horse was seen in the shadows, stomping a hoof on the floor of his stall.  
  
Small sounds of the night arose from all around. Then, booted footsteps came swiftly from behind and a strong arm wrapped suddenly around Ivy's neck, a hand held tightly over her mouth. It was the same frighteningly wild man that had been seen in the Prancing Pony with the bloody dagger. His wide, blazing eyes were just barely seen beneath the shadows of a hooded cloak.With a strong grip still on Ivy, he lunged at Roscoe...  
  
His body reacting before his brain could command it, Roscoe flashed out his hobbit-sword and struck the man in the hand; the wound did not seem deep, but Roscoe hoped it would be enough to deter the murderer for a moment at least. It might give Roscoe the chance to come up with a strategy...  
  
His mind was now racing. He tried to go for the man's other arm, the one holding Ivy. Perhaps he would loosen his grip if that arm was wounded. "I just hope I don't miss and get her instead!" Roscoe thought.  
  
Ivy took in a startled breath as the man grabbed her, gathered stones falling to the ground with a small clatter as her still unheld arms struck blindly at him...they were sadly weak, as it was quite hard to punch somebody when not facing them at all.   
  
She watched Roscoe with wide eyes, constantly twisting and struggling to get out of the smelly Big Person's grasp.  
  
The man gasped in pain as the small sword struck his hand. He held it tightly to his chest for a moment before swinging his arm, catching Roscoe sharply across the face. Blood from his wound splattered over the hobbit and the cobblestone road.  
  
He then moved Ivy to his side and drew a sword that had been hidden beneath his cloak. He raised it and used the hilt to land a heavy blow to the top of Roscoe's head. A sudden scuffling noise caught the murderer's attention and he panicked. With Ivy held fast under one arm, the man staggered down the street, glancing behind him warily until he disappeared into the shadows.  
  
Ivy growled under her breath, not able to do much of anything in the man's hold. It wasn't very pleasant being carried, that much was certain. She suddenly realized that she was completely alone...Roscoe wouldn't come around for at least an hour, and who knew what her captor would have done by then? At that moment, she began to feel afraid for the first time since initially spotting the body of Mungo Bracegirdle in the Prancing Pony. Fearing that he would strike her unconscious if she made a fuss, Ivy grudgingly hung limp. Wherever they went, she wanted to be awake to see it...  
  
Roscoe felt cold stone against his face before he opened his eyes. The ground seemed to recoil and advance beneath him, and his heart beat in his ears, throbbing up in his temples. He rolled over onto his back and stared up into the sky. "What time is it?" he asks himself. "And how long have I been laying here?" At first he didn't remember anything that had happened; then he looked to his right to see his sword lying on the ground by his head…  
  
"Ivy!"  
  
Roscoe tried to sit up, but a whirlwind of dizziness and pain forced him to the ground again. "Bad idea!" he thought. "Must not get up yet…"  
  
But he must, he realized. He couldn't delay any more than he already had. Every moment on the ground was one less moment not finding Ivy -- "And that just won't do at all," Roscoe thought.  
  
Roscoe forced himself to his feet, grasping his sword and trying desperately to keep his balance. The pain in his head, though immense, seemed less oppresive to him than the feeling of utter helplessness that overcame him. Frantically looking at the whirling and fuzzy world about him to discern where to go next, Roscoe began to emit involuntary sobs of anger and despair.  
  
"What do I do now?" his brain shrieks. "Where could they have gone? Think, Roscoe, think! There is no time... no time…"  
  
Roscoe raised his hand to his face and noticed blood... the man's blood! He was bleeding! Roscoe quickly looked down at the cobblestone street for a trail that might lead him to Ivy, and it being not hard to find Roscoe tightened his belt and followed as fast as he could.  
  
"If there be any good governing this world, may it give me speed in my quest!"  
  
The trail of blood wound through alleys and secret ways through which Roscoe had never been, and it was quite difficult to follow in the dark; however, Roscoe's eyes were very keen -- even for a hobbit -- and his determination allowed him to concentrate so much on following the trail that he had forgotten even the gnawing pain in his empty stomach.  
  
Roscoe winced. "Oh bother, I wish I hadn't thought of that! No time for food now, though. Must keep moving, even if my stomach turns inside-out for lack of nourishment!"  
  
Roscoe was silent as a hobbit can be (which happens to be extremely so, fortunately for Roscoe), yet he still moved at a great pace. His head was still throbbing and he felt sick to his stomach, but he pressed on nonetheless. He began to recount in his mind the events that occured the night before (for he was almost certain it was morning already) and tried to find anything that he could have done differently. "Perhaps," he thought, "I could have avoided all of this!"  
  
However, thinking it through, Roscoe was glad he had been there to intercept Ivy; if he hadn't, then she probably would have been in the inn -- all by herself -- when the murder took place. "Then again," he thought with a frown, "I wouldn't have been there to draw all of that wretched attention to myself with all my dratted yammering! Oh, what a pickle I've put us in now!"  
  
Roscoe wondered where he was in the town; he'd never been along those back ways before (at least not in the dark), and he thought it would be very much improved if he at least knew where he was. "I must be near the outskirt by now," he thought, for he at least had a pretty good Hobbit sense of what direction he was more or less following as he twisted and turned through the deserted alleyways: west, it seemed, always west. "Good gracious me, I hope he doesn't take her into the Old Forest! What a chase that would be, to be sure!"  
  
For a moment, the few drops of spattered blood seemed to drift over to the side into the shadows of a shed... but soon moved violently out down the alley again. The trail continued in this manner for nearly another half mile before reaching a high wooden gate that surely led to the outside along the crossroads.  
  
There were several red drops on the wood and half of a red handprint, which suggested that the villian had climbed over it. That would have been somewhat of a simple task for a Big Person, but it was about six feet high, and there were no secure footholds in it save one at the very bottom and one near the top.  
  
Roscoe stepped back and looked up at the imposing gate, wondering what to do. "There's no way I'm going to able to climb this." He began to look around for ideas. "Come now, Roscoe, don't panic; you don't have the time. Now, think.…"  
  
Roscoe wasn't much at climbing -- especially not smooth, vertical gates -- and he didn't want to waste time finding the gatekeeper and asking for his assistance (especially since the gatekeeper tended to be a little inquizitive and conversational -- traits that were quite unwelcomed given Roscoe's great rush).  
  
Roscoe looked up at the roofs of the neaby buildings: they appeared to be apartment houses, which was luck for Roscoe since they were bound to have some sort of way to get down from the top rooms if there ever was a fire. Roscoe jogged silently round the building and sure enough found a fire ladder -- a bit off the ground, but nothing too high for a hobbit to jump up to.  
  
Roscoe sheathed his sword and began his ascent: though he wasn't particularly fond of heights, he climbed ladders every day as part of his job (he was a painter after all) and didn't think twice about climbing this one. However, the building was a two-story for Big People, which was quite higher than he was accustomed to, and the ladder seemed to be particularly rickety and unstable, causing Roscoe's heart to jump into his throat every time he thought it was going to slip. He eventually made it to the top without any such incident, to the great relief of Roscoe's imagination of all the unpleasant things that might happen in that event.  
  
Once Roscoe made it to the roof, his heart sank as he realized that the apartment building was much higher than the town wall; Roscoe couldn't think of jumping from such an immense height. He looked around for a roof that was closer to the ground, yet high enough to be able to clear the wall. And indeed, there was such a building nearby -- however, to get to it he would have to jump across a rather impressive-looking alleyway to get there, and his landing would certainly make more noise than he would like. Plus, it was quite a far ways down from the roof of the apartment to the roof of the second building.  
  
Roscoe saw no other obvious options, though, and his time was running out. Roscoe decided to jump for it -- and he did so, though he landed with quite an audible clack! of wooden shingles that seemed to echo throughout the deserted area.  
  
Not wasting time to see if anyone had heard him, he immediately took a running jump for the wall and cleared it. He landed on the hard ground outside the town with a loud thud that knocked the wind out of him. He lay on the ground a little while to catch his breath.  
  
The hoofbeats soon grew even louder and the horse and rider turned onto the westward road. As the figure approached, it could be seen that it was shrouded in a hooded cloak. The material wasn't dark or sinister-looking, but rather of very fine make and a soft grey color.  
  
The steed was about the same shade of grey and it ran lightly, barely leaving a tiny swirl of dust as it went. The rider seemed to be completely focused on his route, yet just as he passed the tree Roscoe was hiding in, his hooded head jerked very slightly in the hobbit's direction. He sunk his heels deep into the horse's sides and the steed gathered speed.  
  
Horse and rider continued down the road, but made a sudden turn into the thicket and disappeared beneath the shadows of the forest. 


	5. Wizardly Intuition

Chapter Five: Wizardly Intuition  
  
Gandalf rode swiftly down the streets of Bree, shouting as he went for passers-by to clear the way for his passage. Without waiting for Nob, he left his horse in the stables behind the Prancing Pony and strode quickly into the inn.  
  
He stood in the doorway and took in his surroundings: the dead body, the crying hobbit and her two comforters. Everyone in the inn very quiet…  
  
"It is as I had suspected," Gandalf muttered to himself; "something is amiss -- and I have a feeling this goes deeper than a bar-brawl."  
  
Gandalf quickly approached the three hobbits on the floor and knelt down to speak with them. "Quickly now, can someone explain to me what has happened here?"  
  
Pippin's face brightened as was usual when Gandalf arrived, but when the recent incident was mentioned a morose expression returned.  
  
"Well,... see, this here is Dolly Bracegirdle. That body over there on the floor is her uncle, Mungo Bracegirdle. We, that is Merry and I, arrived to see quite a frightening-looking Big Person standing over Mungo with a knife." Pippin gulped. This wasn't something even the most adventurous of hobbits were used to, let alone Peregrin Took who never ventured further from home than this very inn. Even then, it was rarely that he or Merry ever even left the Shire.  
  
"Miss Bracegirdle here nearly fainted so we've been keeping an eye on her while she recovers." And to Pippin, keeping an eye on someone meant offering them an ale and giving them a reassuring pat on the back.  
  
Though he seemed to be letting the gruesome reality of the whole ordeal roll off his back for Dolly's sake, Pippin was severely shaken up over it. He stood straight and kept his shoulders square but the corners of his mouth kept twitching in a queer manner and his brows were furrowed.  
  
Gandalf seemed to pay little attention to Peregrin's account (though he in fact heard every word) -- nor did he even glance at the dead body beside him. Gandalf took off his hat and reached out his hand to lay on Dolly's shoulder.  
  
"I need you to tell me all that you know about this," Gandalf said softly yet firmly to the grieving Dolly Bracegirdle.  
  
Dolly's face held an expression of wonder, for she had never seen a wizard up close before. Her family tried to keep any relations with the Bagginses unknown, therefore sheltering Dolly from that dreaded disease known as 'adventurousness'.  
  
She took a quavering breath. Hiccups of shock mixed with the ale riddled her sentences. "I've been here on'y a day, sir, visiting my-*hic!*-uncle. There was such a large crowd in the inn that I didn't-*hic!*-realize what happened until later... I'm not sure how-*hic!*-much later. Could've been hours."  
  
She took another deep breath to steady herself. "I don't know who'd be going after my uncle or-*hic!*-why... but he did always seem to have relations with the queerest folk."  
  
She then glanced around warily. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but this might be more important than I know." She paused a bit, seeming to be fighting with herself. "My Uncle Mungo's been making trips to Rohan! Seems he's become real friendly with the Big Folk down there... and in Gondor, too! Don't know what'd give a hobbit the notion to want to have such queer travels as this... but this is my Uncle Mungo we're talking about."  
  
Wiping a stray tear, Dolly took another soothing gulp of her ale.  
  
"Drat!" Gandalf muttered under his breath. "Evil can spread over great distances in no time at all, it seems. I am wearied with this chase!"  
  
Gandalf's mind spun as he stood up and put his hat back on; obviously, he has some idea more about the implications behind the recent happenings than the hobbits who witnessed them. He quickly strode toward the door. He was just about to exit when he suddenly whirled around and spoke to the hobbits again.  
  
"Make sure everyone is on their guard; the murderer could return and make sure that those who witnessed what he has done do not convey any information that would hinder his purposes."  
  
At that moment, Gandalf's expression changed a bit. He added warily: "I trust that no one has left the inn since the incident occured...?"  
  
About to wish Gandalf farewell, Pippin paused and his jaw dropped.  
  
"Roscoe and Ivy..." he muttered.  
  
He ran up to the wizard. "Gandalf! Roscoe Longbottom and Ivy Greenhand! They left just after Dolly discovered it was her uncle! They could be anywhere! Curse my inattentiveness! If I had known they would be in danger, I could have stopped them...", and on he rambled. Poor Pippin looked ready to sock himself in the face.  
  
"Come now, Peregrin Took, don't carry on like a fool!" the wizard said firmly. "There are often things that must happen that are beyond the control of any of us. Don't waste your breath on curses, Master Peregrin: look forward! Stay alert, and see that everyone knows the danger here. I will tend to other matters!"  
  
With that, Gandalf exited the inn, mounted his horse, and left just as quickly and suddenly as he had come. 


	6. Into the Old Forest

Chapter Six: Into the Old Forest  
  
Roscoe's eyes widened. He would have sworn that he had just seen an Elf, had it not been for the shiver that went down his spine as he passed. Somehow, Roscoe had a sense that this hooded figure was dangerous, elf or no.  
  
"I wouldn't want to be caught in the same forest as that fellow, that's for sure!" Roscoe said to himself. However, he wasn't about to give up; he swore to himself he'd find Ivy and do his best to protect her, and he was prepared to do all it took to do just that.  
  
Roscoe turned his attention into the forest, and for a moment he forgot all about the hooded stranger in light of this new fear. Roscoe feared the forest greatly; after the stories he'd heard, he wouldn't have been caught anywhere near it without necessity. He had even heard that the forest was alive -- and it almost seemed that way from the mysterious creaking sounds that seemed to come from the trees all around.  
  
Roscoe tried to tell himself that it was all hogwash, and began his trek into the forest, albeit very slowly and carefully. Constantly on the lookout for another appearance of the mysterious stranger (not to mention the even more mysterious unknown evils that may have dwelt in the forest), Roscoe continued to follow the tracks left by the Big Person and his prisoner, trying very hard not to offend the trees (if in fact they were watching him).  
  
A breeze that had managed to make its way through the mangled branches of the forest carried with it the groans of the trees themselves, either simply swaying or alerting each other of a trespasser in their midst. Even a gnarled old stump at the edge of the path seemed to glare with eery silence as its cousins swayed around it.  
  
The tracks, barely visible now, would fade and reappear again every few yards, making them very difficult to follow. Every once in awhile the path that the tracks were following would suddenly be barred off by tree branches that had wound together so tightly, it appeared as if they had been like that for decades. Though a bit beyond these barricades the tracks would reappear and continue fading in and out.  
  
They dipped down into a small ravine, made prints in the mud along a stream, then tracked back up the other side. They wound around a very thick and very ancient-looking willow with branches that drooped and brushed the ground, then around a gnarled old tree stump-...  
  
A gnarled tree stump? This particular part of the forest looked strangely familiar...  
  
With the newly presented predicament, several moments of stillness passed and a long willow vine slowly began to move along the forest floor. It soon found the foot of a hobbit and began to coil around the ankle. Another snuck up from above and dangled down to wrap about the hobbit's shoulders and make a coil around his neck.  
  
"Ah!" Roscoe was startled out of his despair at going in circles by the groping branches. He tried to draw his sword, but his hands were also bound too quickly for him to do anything in his defense. Soon, Roscoe was entirely entangled in the branches, and he was being pulled under the tree's roots!  
  
"Help!" The cry came out involuntarily -- despite the still-present danger of the lurking stranger -- and the poor hobbit sank deeper and deeper into the tree's gnarled roots. Roscoe was pulled under completely now, his cries for help muffled in the thick, strong roots of the tree.  
  
Gandalf rode west to the outskirts of the township of Bree, continuing onto the border of the Old Forest. Upon reaching the trees, he dismounted and looked for tracks leading into the forest.  
  
He found them soon enough: two hobbit tracks and one of a man (rather tall, he guessed, by the span on his steps). Gandalf could not see any tracks left by the cloaked stranger's horse, but he had a strong feeling that he was in the forest as well.  
  
For now, though, Gandalf was searching for the missing hobbits, and the former trail of footprints would be his first endeavor in this adventure. He followed Roscoe's trail to the base of the great tree. Immediately he recited an incantation that caused the roots of the tree to recoil and release their prisoner.  
  
And just in time, too! Roscoe was beginning to wonder if this was the end for him! The hobbit jumped free of the tree's clutches with a stumble. He looked up at the wizard with awe.  
  
"Gandalf!" he cried, recognizing the wizard. "Bless the hair on my feet, but I've never had the pleasure! And thank you so very much for releasing me. What did you say to make the trees obey you?" he added, with curiosity.  
  
Gandalf spoke as he walked. "I just told them if they don't behave themselves, then I'd cause them to shrivel up. Luckily for me (and for them) I've been in this wood before, and they know that I am as good as my word on such matters."  
  
Gandalf (seeing the difficulty in being able to follow the tracks) recited another incantation that caused the trees to make way. Also, the tracks themselves began to illuminate a faint blue, causing them to stand out unmistakeably. Without another word, Gandalf strode quickly ahead after the glowing tracks.  
  
Roscoe had to run to keep up with the wizard's step. He was very glad that Gandalf had come; from what he'd heard in stories about the wizard, he was very useful when it came to getting out of a bind.  
  
"And what a bind I've gotten myself into!" Roscoe thought to himself as he huffed along after Gandalf. In the presence of such a legendary figure in his mind, Roscoe doubted his own usefulness. In fact, if it wasn't for Ivy, Roscoe would have left the forest altogether and left the mysterious riders and the dangerous murderers and the malicious forest to those for whom such adventures are suited.  
  
Roscoe continued at the heels of the wizard. He wondered and feared where the tracks would lead, though he felt very confident now that he had a honest-to-goodness wizard on his side!  
  
As Gandalf continued to follow the trail, he drew Glamdring, its blade shimmering from the little moonlight that made it through the dense foliage above.  
  
Eventually, Gandalf and Roscoe came across a small clearing in the wood. On the other side of this clearing could be seen a sort of makeshift tent, from which a dim light shone from the inside. Gandalf motioned for Roscoe to follow him around the perimeter of the clearing until they were just within hearing of the goings-on in the tent.  
  
Two voices came from within the tent -- a gruff man's voice and a young female voice -- though Gandalf did not recognise them. It appeared that there was an interrogation going on.  
  
Roscoe knew the second voice, without a doubt, to belong to Ivy Greenhand! He was so elated that she was alive, he forgot his danger for one unfortunate moment.  
  
"Ivy!" he cried without thinking into the silent darkness; the minute he opened his mouth, he realized his mistake. "Roscoe, you fool! Look what you've done now! Next time, why don't you run into a clan of goblins and point out to them how delicious you would be!"  
  
Roscoe looked up at Gandalf frantically -- both in apology and to see what to do next.  
  
The tent jerked and a large shadow moved about, knocking over the lamp and quenching any light that shone through. A slight gasp sounded which brought on a loud slap and light feminine squeak. A man's dark silouette was seen emerging from the tent's entrance. He immediately saw Roscoe and was about to draw his sword (with a hand that was carelessly bandaged) but the presence of the wizard made the blood drain from his face. He started backing up and nearly fell over the tent behind him.  
  
"Curunír..." he muttered as his frame began shaking. Then he shouted, "Curunír! I gurunír! Hebrilith! I gurunír!" ('Wizard! The wizard! Hebrilith! The wizard!')  
  
As soon as the first shout had left the man's mouth, the familiar pounding of a horse's hooves, light and swift, came from the other side of the clearing. The grey steed and rider rushed through the brush, almost glowing from the scarce light of the moon, making all other things around them seem dim.  
  
The rider's hood was now back and a head of gold elven hair was visible with a fair face common only in the race of the Eldar. His eyes held not only a fire, but a sort of rage that made him strange, very much unlike his kin.  
  
He was not afraid to wield his sword and drew it from the sheath on his horse's saddle. He shouted at the man, "Dago i beriannath! Dago ti!" ('Kill the halflings! Kill them!')  
  
The thief's eyes went wide and he fearfully mumbled something about the wizard.  
  
Hebrilith glared savagely at the man. "Dago ti! Ú-phulo dregir i beriannath!" ('Kill them! The halflings cannot escape!')  
  
Seeing the man's hesitation, Gandalf spoke firmly: "Herefara, you traitor! You've heard my voice before! You recognise my face! Listen now: you are no match for me. You are aware of this. Depart, now! Leave this battle for those whom it concerns," Gandalf said, casting an eye at the dark elf. "Stay, man, and you will surely die; you will not live to to tell of it if you reject my mercy!"  
  
Ivy, still dizzied from Herefara's blow, sat up inside the tent and began to muddle through the darkness. The elf was back...it had been too much to hope that he had really left them for good, back to his mystical forests and ancient brethren. Did Roscoe really have a chance against both of them? But there was another voice, deep and commanding...it sounded like he was helping, but she couldn't tell. Closing her eyes to force down the nausea rising in her stomach, Ivy clumsily managed to rise to her knees. Her hands had been bound tightly behind her, but the ropes around her ankles had been tied in haste; the knots were ludicrously loose and easy to kick off her large feet.  
  
Half-crawling to the flap of the tent, she peered outside. Not much was visible to her at first, nothing but the figures. Faces came more slowly, but sharpened in the dimly lit gloom. Hoping not to be seen, Ivy began to slowly make her way into the shadows...maybe a splintered branch or a pointed stone would at least begin to slice through the bindings. A faint hope, but still something.   
  
Feeling extremely conspicuous, Ivy bit her lip. She didn't dare try to get Roscoe's attention in case Herefara or Hebrilith noticed his direction of focus, but silently prayed that she would be able to get free before something terrible happened to any of them.  
  
The sound of the murderer slapping Ivy made Roscoe's blood boil. In his rage, Roscoe felt like he could take on ten such criminals! However, he decided to leave the nasty work up to Gandalf as much as he could; he just waited for an opportunity to get close to the tent and free Ivy from her imprisonment.  
  
At the elf's command, Herefara shakily drew his sword but was still very hesitant to try going after Roscoe with the wizard standing so nearby. Deciding that Hebrilith hadn't specified which hobbit had to be killed first, he turned around and started for the tent, but this brought to his attention that Ivy had snuck out while he had had his back turned. He scowled and lunged for her, catching the rope that held her wrists together, and began pulling her back to him.  
  
Now that one hobbit was being taken care of, Hebrilith stayed idle no longer. Holding his sword aloft, he spurred his horse and the animal leapt forward without hesitation toward the hobbit and the wizard. He first charged between them, separating them, then wheeled around and charge back towards the hobbit, holding his sword above his head... 


	7. Not so Easy

http://www.avidgamers.com/beforefotr …there's not much more to say…  
  
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Chapter Seven: Not so Easy  
  
With a movement of Gandalf's staff, a great flash of light and a loud cracking sound pierced the darkness of the forest for a moment; Herefara was knocked to the ground, blinded from the flash.  
  
Gandalf turned to the elf, whose eyes he knew would have been able to withstand the flash, and saw him advancing toward Roscoe. "Quickly!" the wizard shouted to the hobbit, "come this way!"  
  
Herefara gasped and threw an arm over his eyes as the light from the wizard's staff flared across the clearing. He soon found himself on the ground and quite unable to see anything. His eyes refused to focus and he was forced to remain on the ground, slowly feeling around for the rope that had slipped out of his hands.  
  
Ivy let out a startled yell as Herefara grabbed her, but got to her feet as quickly as she could after the flash of light. Hearing Gandalf's call, she hesitated. Was she meant to follow them as well, or did the wizard have some kind of plan in his mind? Taking her best guess, Ivy ran in the direction she had heard him call from, hoping once again that luck might be on their side.  
  
Roscoe wasted no time; he lunged as quickly as he could to the left, closer to Gandalf. That move saved his life for sure! Yet though he was able to escape Hebrilith's blade, he was knocked on his back by the elf's horse. Roscoe sat up quickly, trying to catch his breath -- and realized that his sword had been knocked to the ground as well! Roscoe jumped to his feet and looked for his sword.  
  
Gandalf took advantage of the time it would take the elf to wheel his steed around and lunged ahead, putting himself in between the elf and the hobbits. "You always have loved to go for the powerless first, you traitorous coward! Let the halflings be!"  
  
Roscoe (thankful for the distraction of Gandalf) found his sword and lunged to pick it up -- almost running into Ivy!  
  
"Ivy!!" he cried, embracing her joyfully. "I'm so glad to see you! I want to hear all about your adventure, but now's not the time. Let's get you out of this..." Roscoe then proceeded to cut Ivy's bonds about her hands, keeping an eye on the murderer in case he should somehow gain back his sight or attack them.  
  
Ivy nodded, rubbing her wrists and fingers to work the feeling back into them. Somehow she felt that she should be much happier to have been rescued, or at least asking a plethora of questions...but she didn't feel like any of it at the moment. Standing somewhat stupidly beside Roscoe, she watched Gandalf and Hebrilith.  
  
Hebrilith's eyes blazed at the sight of the wizard before him, blocking him from his prey. His horse reared and the elf sheathed his sword. As the animal landed he drew his bow and an arrow, nocked it, and let it loose faster than the eye could follow. It whistled through the air straight at the wizard. Hebrilith sincerely didn't expect it to kill, but he knew it would at least buy him some time.   
  
Taking the sword scabbard from his horse's saddle and throwing the strap over his head and one shoulder, Hebrilith leapt off of his steed's back into the branches of a nearby tree and glided along one that stretched far out over the hobbits. He drew his sword and leapt from the branch...  
  
The elf fell almost directly on top of Roscoe, who was knocked over. He managed to keep his sword this time, though, and quickly stood before his opponent.  
  
Roscoe was blinded with rage at this elf. Deep down he knew he was no match for the creature, but something within him snapped at that moment; all of the unfortunate things that have happened in the last evening -- Ivy's kidnapping, the exhaustive chase, no food, no rest, still quite an immense headache, this wretched fight -- they all came to a head. Roscoe gripped his sword and yelled at the elf: "Leave us alone you devil! Perhaps I'm not so helpless as I appear!!" With that, Roscoe charged the elf, sword in the air.  
  
Gandalf easily deflected the arrow and followed the elf with his eyes. Guessing his purpose, Gandalf got ready to act; however, Roscoe's outburst surprised him, and he thought fast. "This might be just the distraction I need," Gandalf thought to himself, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.  
  
The elf could hardly keep from laughing at the hobbit's attempts to thwart him. However, it had been many many years since the sound of laughter had passed his lips and all expression left his face.  
  
He spun and easily knocked the halfling's sword away with his own and caught Roscoe in the chest with a booted foot.  
  
Dark figures were soon discernable to him and Herefara began crawling over the ground, recovered sword in hand, eyes locked on what he was sure was the silhouette of the hobbit who had escaped his grasp twice already. He told himself that wouldn't let it happen again...  
  
Within a few feet of Ivy, he leapt up (now able to see a bit better) and wrapped an arm firmly around her throat.  
  
Ivy was about to spring forward (she didn't know exactly what would be accomplished from that, but attacking the Elf seemed like a good idea at the time to her), when she was grabbed from behind by Herefera. She could do no more than force out a tiny squeak, eyes bulging as her throat was constricted by the Big Person's arm. Her hands flew to her throat, trying to loosen his grasp. An awful pressure started in her chest, but she could not draw in breath to relieve it.   
  
Satisfied that he had a good grip on her, Herefara held his sword to her throat...  
  
Gandalf saw his chance. Reciting an incantation that caused the tip of his staff to glow a reddish-blue, he swung at the distracted elf, catching him on the back. The staff sparked as it made contact, and instantly the elf's clothes burst into a magical blue flame.  
  
Still somewhat in shock, Ivy's vision blurred as her eyes begin to water. There was a great pressure building behind them as well, an awful sensation of burning. She tensed at the blade to her throat, small spasms running down her body as her lungs fought involuntarily to expand and fill with lifegiving air. It was an all-over ache; she could hear her heart beating frantically to supply enough oxygen to her brain. She never let go of Herefara's arm, although her hands could not do anything to dislodge him now. She shut her eyes, feeling a vast dizziness.  
  
"I'm going to die…" Ivy wondered in her muddled thoughts...or, rather, she would have if she had been able to form so much as a question in it. But she knew the feeling, although the words did not pass in their normal silent ring. It wasn't so much a wondering as a cold realization of the fact.  
  
Roscoe, freed by the elf's clutches, gasped and looked over at Ivy. "No!" he thought, "no time to get my sword!"  
  
Roscoe rolled to his feet and made a desperate lunge at the murderer. He latched onto the man's sword arm and sank his teeth as far as he could into his skin.  
  
Herefara's hand immediately released his sword and he cried out in pain, his grip on Ivy also loosening. He swung his left hand into the side of Roscoe's head and retrieved his sword, prepared to stab Roscoe through...   
  
Ivy grimaced, feeling a slight relief but not quite knowing what it meant. Her lungs expanded suddenly, a sharp pain in both her sides. Each small breath of air hurt a little bit less; the world coming slowly back to her. Fighting off the incredible urge to lie on the ground and conveniently faint, she brought her hands back up to struggle with Herefara's loosened arm. Maybe she'd distract him long enough to let Roscoe or Gandalf do something...but there was still the flaming Elf...  
  
Having distracted the greater foe, Gandalf caught the murderer's sword hand in mid-air with his foot, pinning it to the ground. He brought the tip of Glamdring to the very skin on the man's throat.  
  
"Gandalf the Grey does not usually make the same offer twice," the wizard hissed at the man on the ground. "I've let you go once, and you've chosen to spit in my face. I could kill you now for attacking my friends and serving the will of evil... but there's good in you still, if you have the strength to see it. Flee from here! Serve your evil master no more, and I will protect at least your passage from this forest as best I can! Don't be a fool -- choose life!"  
  
Hebrilith was thrown quite aways by the wizard's spell, but he leapt up just as soon as he landed. He would have cried in rage and frustration but he wished to keep away all attention. Yanking off the clasp of his cloak, he flung it away from himself before it could alight the rest of his clothing.  
  
"Thindae, tolo!" ('Thindae, come!') The grey horse came trotting from behind and the elf grasped onto the saddle and leapt up into the seat. He spurred the horse on and they galloped swiftly off into the deep shadows of the Old Forest just as daybreak hit the horizon.  
  
Roscoe, relieved that his desperate attempts had come to some good after all, grabbed Ivy and pulled her from the man's reach; he was not going to underestimate the man this time! Nonetheless, he was exhausted, and did not get up right away. "Bless you, Gandalf!" he thought, "bless you indeed!"  
  
The man began trembling again. He had thought that the hobbit lass was surely done for and that half his job was accomplished... then he found himself staring down the sharp end of a sword with a powerful wizard on the other.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to say a single word. He simply let out a few quavering whimpers and rolled over, crawling away as fast as his knees could take him. When he decided that he was far enough away, he climbed to his feet and stumbled away through the brush, not so much as daring to look back. 


	8. Safe Return

Chapter Eight: Safe Return  
  
Gandalf took no time rejoicing over the departure of the two villains; his mind was already straying to other matters. "Seeing his face answers many questions," he mused to himself. "I wonder..."  
  
Gandalf soon turned to the two hobbits panting on the ground. "I will escort you two as far as the forest's edge and into Bree if you wish, but no further! This battle is but a shimmer and a glimpse of a bigger fray that needs my immediate attention. Come, let us go!"  
  
Roscoe's famished and exhausted state was just beginning to catch up with him; the high of pursuing his purpose was gone with it's completion, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than just to lay in that forest (accursed though it was) and sleep -- better yet, to lay in his bed at home, with a fire going... He knew he had to go, though.   
  
"Just a little while and everything will be back to normal!" he thought to himself. He turned to Ivy, and realized that in the heat of battle he hasn't had time to really acknowledge her. "How are you, Ivy? Can you walk just now?"  
  
Ivy thought for a moment. Her legs, though undamaged, felt shaky but able to support her.  
  
"I think so." She said, feeling dazed. Everything had happened so quickly...and now it was over, or so it seemed. "Where are we going?" She asked, rubbing her neck carefully. Either Gandalf hadn't said, or she should have been listening more attentively.  
  
Roscoe helped her to her feet. "Don't worry about that -- I'll make sure you're taken care of all right!" He walked with Ivy to the end of the clearing where Gandalf was, offering his arm in case she needed to steady herself. "I think we're ready to go, Gandalf. Thank you so much for all that you've done! I don't know what I would have done without you!"  
  
Gandalf nodded at Roscoe's thanks and smiled. "Let us leave, then." He led the way carefully through the forest, minding to go slowly for the sake of the tired and beaten hobbits.  
  
Roscoe followed after with Ivy, very interested to hear about Ivy's adventure but not wanting to overburden her for the moment. "Perhaps I'll see her tomorrow, when she's more rested…" he hoped.  
  
Roscoe followed the wizard silently as he led the way through the wood, his mind numbed and very tired himself.  
  
Remembering that the wizard had played a large part in their general return to safety, Ivy bowed clumsily, one hand holding tight to Roscoe's arm.  
  
"Thank you..." She smiled, feeling quite small in Gandalf's presence, much moreso than from the Big People or the Fair Folk. Wizards, she decided, were quite a different sort of people than what most would normally deal with.  
  
Gandalf chuckled silently to himself as the team moved soundlessly through the trees. He secretly wished to himself that his travels more often brought him in the company of hobbits. "They're much more grateful and polite than men and elves," he thought.  
  
The thought reminded him of Bilbo's upcoming birthday party. "My my, he should be what, 110 this year? I should hope my affairs bring me back to the Shire in time; it will be nice to visit the Shire again... quite nice indeed..."  
  
Ivy nodded to herself, listening to Gandalf talk without thinking up much that would make a good (or even understandable) response. Her thoughts went no further than somehow getting somewhere safe and sleeping until she woke up; then turning over and falling back asleep again. "And warm, too," she thought. "maybe back at the Inn…" The night's events had sort of a hazy veil over them, but Ivy had a feeling that in the morning she would have some memories to deal with and stow away in the back of her mind.  
  
The night was almost over when Roscoe and Ivy entered the Prancing Pony inn; neither of them were very awake. Gandalf had left them at the gates of Bree, wishing them both a fair morning before disappearing along the darkened roads. Barliman was asleep, but Nob was keeping watch.  
  
Roscoe put down some money on the counter. "See that Ivy here gets a proper room. There's some extra there for breakfast in the morning, and anything else she may need! I'll be back before noon tomorrow to pay any other costs that may be required."  
  
With that, Nob walked to a one-bed hobbit-sized room. Roscoe and Ivy followed close behind.  
  
Ivy smiled politely at Nob, walking carefully behind him towards the room. Rest was closer than ever before; it was getting harder to keep her eyes open. Suspecting Roscoe was similarly afflicted, she winced. It had not been a fun night...but the sun was beginning to rise, so it was not quite evening at all anymore. Whatever it was, it merited a good, long sleep.  
  
Roscoe saw that Ivy was put to bed before turning slowly himself and taking the short trek back to his own house. He smiled slightly, wondering where he'd ever got the nerve to do the things he did this day...  
  
It was too late for such thought, he said to himself. "Just now, home to bed. Thank goodness we're both still in one piece."  
  
Ivy rolled over, firmly cocooning herself in the soft blankets. She felt like she was sinking into the soft mattress, but had very little time to think (or even remember to give Roscoe a proper farewell) before burrowing her head under the pillow and falling asleep like a log. 


End file.
